


Makings of a Team

by KrolenaT



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24038116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrolenaT/pseuds/KrolenaT
Summary: Trust is hard to come by in their field of work. A few months after the events of Rome, the trio is still learning how to trust one another  and how to reconcile the differences between their divided loyalties.Oh, and the CIA wants their most effective agent back.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 47





	1. Undisclosed Location

"Morning," Napoleon greeted with a smile, as he walked passed Gaby, into Gaby and Illya's hotel room.

After a good night's sleep and an excellent breakfast spread in bed, he was ready to do his job.

Gaby was regarding him with furrowed brows. He swung his head around, to see Illya wearing the same vexed expression on the other side of the room.

They just kept staring at him, scrutinising.

Gaby crossed her arms across her chest with an exasperated huff.

Napoleon quickly skimmed through his memories of yesterday's happenings. What had he done to elicit such a reaction in his partners?

He'd executed the first part of his job perfectly, stealing the personnel files from their current target: an organisation suspected by U.N.C.L.E to be involved in less than legal and moral acts. It was a straightforward in-and-out. Nobody even knew that the files had been stolen. Yet.

Today, they were supposed to infiltrate the organisation's secret compound just outside of town, to procure more evidence, and hopefully rescue all the poor boys and girls from the human-trafficking monsters whom they have been held imprisoned by.

"What?" Napoleon challenged.

"Why did you do it?" Illya stood up from the chair stiffly, his posture mirroring Gaby's.

"Excuse me?"

Gaby thrust a newspaper at Napoleon, "You've compromised our mission. And for what? Money? Is that all you care about? There are lives at stake here, Solo. Dozens of innocent children."

"I really don't-," Napoleon read the headline of the paper.

**_Gustav Klimt Stolen From Private Collection in Dead of Night!_ **

"You think I did this?" Napoleon found it hilarious.

Very funny. Great joke.

Except, Gaby and Illya seemed to be dead serious.

There was a low-resolution photograph of the surveillance camera below the eye-catching title, showing the grainy back-view of a man on a motorcycle, with the painting strapped to his back. That could have been anyone. He had no clue how Gaby and Illya may have come to the absurd conclusion that Napoleon had been the thief.

The only thing he had stolen yesterday were the files.

Napoleon tossed the newspaper back to Gaby, "Don't be ridiculous."

He strode across the room and sank down into the plush chair Illya had just vacated.

"Police found the same motorcycle this morning. One street away from the hotel. No prints, no nothing. No trace at all, nobody even saw anything," Gaby explained with a raised eyebrow, "A very good thief, with the tools and skills to crack a very sophisticated safe."

"What did you do, last night? After we came back to hotel?" Illya planted himself in front of the chair.

Napoleon had to crane his neck just to look at him in the eye, "Sleeping, peril. I need my beauty sleep."

He didn't appreciate being interrogated like a criminal, for something he didn't do. Napoleon stood up and pushed passed the both of them, "Now if you two don't mind, shall we stop with all the accusations and let us go? We still have a job to do."

"We can't," Gaby snapped, poking a finger into Napoleon's chest, "We can't do our job, because you stole the painting from Rotkopf, and now he's going to be onto us."

Rotkopf was the mastermind of their target organisation. Apparently, the painting was stolen from the very same house Napoleon had broken into yesterday, for the mission.

"What?!" Napoleon regretted not reading the article through and snatched the newspaper back from Gaby, "You can't be serious."

What were the chances?

This was not a coincidence. Someone must have been trying to set-

Napoleon's train of thought was rudely interrupted when Illya pushed him roughly onto the wall, and pinned him there with a strong arm across his chest.

"Stop lying!" Illya growled, "I knew you can't be trusted. Tricked us!"

They hadn't been working together all that long, it had only been a few months after Rome. But it still hurt, having his teammates turn their backs on him and not believe his words.

"Search my room if you want. I don't have it," Napoleon declared, "Ask the concierge. I never left the hotel last night."

He was being set up. He should have known, there was never such a thing as an easy in-and-out. Not for him. Never for him.

They had no way to prove that he was the thief, but Napoleon also had no way to prove that he wasn't. He was just too good at stealing things without getting caught.

"You think we're stupid?!" Illya snapped, coming to the same conclusion, "Should have bugged your room yesterday. But Gaby said trust you. Mistake," he shook his head and grumbled lowly in Russian.

“It wasn’t me,” Napoleon retorted, “Someone wanted you to believe it was. But it wasn’t.”

Gaby lifted Illya’s arm away from Napoleon, staring right into his eyes, “Say you’re telling the truth-”

“I am. I promise.”

Gaby nodded, “What should we do now?"

“Waverly, did you…,” Napoleon asked, dreading the answer.

If Waverly terminated his contract with UNCLE, he’d be reeled back into being an agent for the CIA. Napoleon really wished that East Berlin was the last he saw of his ex-handler Sanders. Ever.

“Not yet. But he will find out, sooner or later,” Gaby said, exchanging gazes with Illya.

Hopefully later, and after Napoleon had managed to uncover the truth and clear his name.

But first, one problem at a time. Napoleon pinched the bridge of his nose as he brainstormed, “We’ll have to change our play. First, we need to find out what happened last night, whether Rotkopf has made us.”

Someone knew who he was, and what he did at the house. Either he was recognised at the house by Rotkopf and his men, or they may have a mole situation on their hands.

“You cannot come with us,” Illya pointed a finger at him.

Napoleon rolled his eyes.

"Fine," if it would make the both of them more convinced of his innocence, he would gladly play along.

Better yet, he could sneak out and do his own investigation.

He worked better alone after all.

—

“Come on. This is excessive, even for you, Peril,” Napoleon groaned, trying against the chain binding his left wrist to the rails above the bathtub.

Illya had bent and connected the thick metal chain link at the ends together with just his bare hands.

“No locks, can’t pick,” Illya stepped back, looking very proud of his handiwork.

“Gaby,” Napoleon whined.

"We can't risk you going out there. If this is indeed a set up, that means they know who you are," Gaby said sternly.

She placed a bottle of water, a sandwich, and their two-way transceiver within Napoleon’s reach. They have also very kindly let Napoleon keep his gun with him.

His patience was wearing thin, “This is a bad idea. What if my help is needed?”

“We will manage,” Illya grunted.

Gaby warned, "And we'll be keeping an ear out for you."

They have no doubt bugged the bathroom, and Napoleon had no idea where it was.

"Could have just asked nicely," Napoleon gestured to his restrains.

Gaby looked almost apologetic when the both of them retreated out of the bathroom.

He listened to his teammates' muffled discussion about the mission through the closed bathroom door, while he was tied to the cold porcelain bathtub.

Napoleon shook his head in frustration. This was a waste of his time.

He took stock of the elegant bathroom with marbled walls. Unless the hotel stocked bolt cutters in their bathrooms, there was no hope of cutting him loose.

There also wasn't much give when he tugged at very secure railing he was chained to, not that his position in the bathtub gave him any room to generate enough leverage and pry the railing off the wall.

Unlike Kuryakin, he couldn't bend metal with his hands, that strong son of a bitch.

Shooting at metal would just be stupid.

Sitting obediently in the tub until his partners return was not an option.

Napoleon sighed heavily at what he had to do. It wasn't the first time he had to escape restraints which he couldn't pick.

He tossed the bottle of water up against the shower caddy above him, displacing the bar of soap, which landed in between his knees.

He picked up the soap and sighed again.

This was going to hurt.

—

Napoleon gritted his teeth as he tugged at his left thumb. It slid painfully back into the joint, and thankfully the pain lessened greatly once it was no longer dislocated.

Only an annoying soreness and stiffness lingered. It was nothing he couldn't ignore.

"Think, Solo, think," He muttered to himself as he packed his bag.

It was always helpful to go back to the beginning.

The orders from Waverly were just to catch Rotkopf red-handed during the transaction, and rescue the children from being sold, which, according to intel from an undercover MI6 agent, was supposed to happen tomorrow evening. They already had the time and place of the supposed transaction. All the three of them needed to do was to infiltrate the compound and gather evidence of the deed, call in back-up after that to get the civilians out.

Napoleon himself, was the one who suggested that he break into Rotkopf's place and steal the personnel files, so that they could get every single one of the bastards, and not just the ones present at the sale.

It was not included in UNCLE's initial plan, but they did seek approval from Waverly the morning of the break-in. So whatever this was, it wasn't a premeditated subterfuge, but an improvisation. Someone had simply taken advantage of the opportunity which had arisen.

Napoleon was ninety-nine percent sure that he hadn't been seen at the house. Besides, it made no sense for Rotkopf to go through all these trouble to get to Napoleon. The criminal could have easily put a round in his head to put an end to this.

That left him with just one explanation: There was a mole in the agency.

Whoever it was, he or she probably wants Napoleon out of UNCLE.

He picked up the phone and dialled, “Hello? It’s Solo. I need your help, but keep Waverly out of this.”

A gruff voice sighed at the other end of the line, “I guess I do owe you one.”

“You still owe me two, Derek,” Napoleon smirked, “I’ve saved your butt three times now.”

“Waverly’s out of office for lunch. What do you need?” Derek was personal assistant to the director of UNCLE.

“Information. I need to know who accessed the file for our current mission in the last twenty-four hours.”

“That’s it?”

“I trust it won’t take long?”

There were some rustling of papers and tapping of keys before Derek came back on the line, “So far, from what I can tell...just...Waverly. The only copy of the file's been sitting on his desk all day. Is something wrong?”

Napoleon frowned. It wasn't Waverly. He could just fire Napoleon if he wanted, and Napoleon was sure that was not at all what Waverly wanted.

There must have been someone else.

“Oh hang on. Now that I think about it, I remember seeing a janitor, who went into Waverly’s office just when he had been called away for bit. Let me check the surveillance footage," More clicking of keys, "I can’t exactly see what he did, he blocked the view of the camera with his cleaning cart.”

“Do you have a name for me?”

He could Derek work on his computer, “Thomas Rodgers. Face on the camera matches the photograph in his personnel file. He joined us the same week you did. He just quit. This morning. Not suspicious at all,” Derek snorted.

Napoleon had a hunch. Sanders had agreed to Napoleon joining UNCLE way too easily. He should have known better.

“Are you in trouble?” Derek's tone turned serious.

"I-," Napoleon could hear Waverly barking in the background. His boss did not sound at all pleased, “Get me Solo on the phone. Now!”

“Yes sir,” Derek said to Waverly, and then to Napoleon, “I’ll call you back.”

The cat was out of the bag.

Solo tapped the phone against his forehead.

There was no use to find the thief now, if he was indeed from the CIA. He’d be long gone, without a trace. The only thing Napoleon could do to prove himself, was to rescue those poor children and put Rotkopf behind bars.

He dialled another number.

"Rodrick."

“Who is this?”

“It's Solo. Help me to put word out that I have recently acquired a Gustav Klimt and I’m looking for a buyer. I want to have it off my hands by the end of today. I'm in a hurry.”

“What is this, some kind of a joke? Were you the one who stole from Rotkopf? And you’re trying to offload it the day after? Tired of living, son?”

“Just do it, will you?” Napoleon snapped, "Find me a buyer and you'll get your share."

“Fine. It’s your funeral.”

—

Napoleon had one hand on the wheel, and the other on the tracker, showing Illya and Gaby’s location. They had just left Rotkopf's house.

He took a quick glance at his watch. They had five hours before the deal went down at an abandoned compound in the outskirts, and the children shipped to whatever horrors which awaited them across the Atlantic.

It was unfortunate that the undercover agent never managed to found out where the children had been imprisoned, just that they would be brought to the compound at the time of the deal. It was never ideal to have civilians caught in the crossfire.

"Solo?" Gaby's voice crackled from the speaker of the transceiver, "You still there?"

Napoleon picked it up from the dashboard, "Is everything alright?"

“We found something. You were right, It wasn’t you."

"What was it you found?" Napoleon breathed a sigh of relief.

"Found a lock pick set in the back alley, where guy escaped. Looks exactly like yours," Illya explained.

"And that explains everything, how?"

Illya huffed, "You never drop your lock pick set. Treat them like your baby. Must be planted."

"That I do," Napoleon smiled while he navigated downtown traffic, "That, I do."

"Target's heading to the compound. Meet us there,” Gaby said.

Napoleon smirked to himself, “How can I? You chained me to the bathtub, remember?”

“I know you got out, Solo. Just shut up and get there,” Gaby ordered, “Oh, and Waverly found out.”

Napoleon expected as much, from the unrelenting ringing of his phone back in the hotel. He had been ignoring Waverly's calls.

"And?"

"We vouched for you. Told him that if he wanted you off the team, we'd be gone too," Gaby said matter-of-factly.

Napoleon opened his mouth, and then closed it. He didn't know what to say. Never in his life had anyone put themselves on the line for him like that.

"I…Thanks."

"If you get there first, wait," Illya warned.

—

Napoleon parked his car behind the bush and studied the blueprints of building. He had a plan.

He still couldn't believe how much Illya and Gaby trusted him, all because of a detail so minute. If he had been in their shoes, he would never trusted someone like himself.All these years of being in situations where misplaced trust could get him killed, it was easier to trust no one, and assume that everyone else was out to get him.

And he was more surprised that Waverly gave him the benefit of the doubt.

If this had been a CIA mission, Sanders would have him thrown into the cell before he even read the newspaper article that morning. Unfortunately, it also wouldn't have been the first time he was wrongfully accused, and carried the blame for someone else's mistake.

"Cowboy?"

"Uh huh?" Napoleon was snapped out of his reverie by Illya's voice.

"Where are you?" Illya growled.

They have found Illya's tracker. Napoleon had made a detour and discarded it near the compound earlier, before arriving at his current location.

Napoleon marked an exit route on his map with a marker, "Hmm…How's the security at the compound?"

"Security? What have you done? Where are you?"

"I've made your job easier.”

“We’re supposed to work together,” Illya spoke through gritted teeth.

Napoleon put down the blueprint, “Just because we’re not together, that doesn’t mean we’re not working together. I’ll take care of some of Rotkopf’s men away from the compound, and you two take care of the rest. The less hostiles we have near the children, the better.”

“You’re not in charge.”

“No, but you’re already at the compound, and we don’t have much time left,” Napoleon pointed out, “I’ll head your way after I’m done here, for backup.”

“Dead man’s no good as backup.”

Napoleon hummed, “You should know by now, insults don’t work on me.”

He continued his work on the paper as he waited for a response.

“Fine,” Illya bit out, “Come quick.”

“I’ll try,” Napoleon promised sincerely.

—

Some bruised ribs, a sprained wrist, and a bleeding gash at his hairline later, Napoleon was on his way to Gaby and Illya. The car drifted over the lines on the road from time to time, but he managed to arrive at the compound in one piece. He parked the car some distance away.

The place looked more imposing at night. It blended into the dark, none of the lights were on.

It was quiet too. Way too quiet.

Napoleon made a series of taps at his transceiver with his finger. The secret code which the three of them had agreed on.

No reply.

Napoleon squinted into his night vision binoculars, trying to spot any sentry before approaching the building. There were two men with rifles strapped onto their chest smoking and chatting near the main entrance.

Good. That meant Gaby and Illya had not done anything to raise the alarm yet.

Maybe he was early-

A shout sliced through the silence of the night, followed by the distinct pops of gunfire.

The two guards rushed into the building, leaving the entrance unguarded.

Guess he was actually right on time.

His transceiver crackled to life, "Cowboy! we're in basement. Stuck. Gaby's already called for help."

"Got it. You have everything we need?" Napoleon stood up from his crouch on the ground, and almost fell back down on his butt as the world tilted on its axis.

"Almost," Gaby paused to fire at someone, "The kids. They're not here!"

It was going to take the calvary at least fifteen minutes to arrive. In the meantime, they just have to stay alive, save the children, and make sure nobody escapes.

Easy.

Napoleon took off, away from the safety of the tree line, towards the commotion.

He skidded to a stop before barging into the now unguarded entrance. Someone was running towards a trailer truck hidden in the back lot of the building.

That must be where they were keeping the children.

Napoleon had a choice to make.

"There's a truck outside the building. They have to be in the truck. I'm going after them."

"Solo, wait!"

"No time, Gaby."

Three men were in the process of climbing into the cab of the truck, and another two men ran towards the rear of the truck. Napoleon trained his rifle on the windscreen and pulled the trigger. The driver slumped over the wheel with a hole between his eyes before he could even start the engine.

He took out another man in the cab before he had to duck and roll away to hide behind a car as the remaining man returned fire in his direction.

Napoleon took a peek over the car's bonnet, and was rewarded with a bullet whizzing passed his ear. The truck roared to life, and blindingly bright headlights flooded the vicinity.

It would be significantly harder for him to stop an eighteen-wheeler once it started moving. It was now or never.

He stayed low on the ground, faintly registering how much his ribs were protesting at the position and aimed.

The truck began to pull out from the lot. He took the shot.

Another headshot. But instead of stopping, the truck accelerated towards him. The dead driver must have floored the accelerator by slumping over it somehow.

Napoleon only had enough time to throw himself to the side, narrowly avoiding being flattened by one of the huge wheels. The vehicle mowed over the car he was hiding behind like it was made of cardboard, and crashed into the bricked wall of the building violently.

The cab of the truck was crushed like an accordion, Napoleon doubted the remaining man in the cab survived the collision, but there were still two men in the trailer. Hopefully none of the children were hurt in the crash. He swung the rifle around to rest on his back, and drew the pIstol from his thigh holster.

“Cowboy, what happened?! Sounds like bomb?”

If Illya had the time to worry about him, it probably meant they were doing alright in the building.

Napoleon picked up the transceiver, “I stopped the truck, it crashed into the building. I’m fine. How are you two doing in there?”

“Secured the building. I’m coming your way,” Illya was heard running down some stairs.

“Impressive.”

Napoleon slid underneath the trailer with a muffled groan, and waited, "Peril? There are two men guarding the children in the truck. Be careful.”

“Always careful.”

Napoleon gave a customary scoff at that.

Muffled cries emanated from within the metal container above him, followed by an angry yell, and then a loud thud.

The metal groaned as the door of the trailer swung open. A thin, young boy was thrown roughly onto the asphalt.

Napoleon growled in rage, and another pair of legs with heavy boots jumped down to join the boy on the ground.

The boy stared right at the figure lying underneath the truck. Napoleon raised a finger to his lips. The boy cried out when he was pulled upright roughly by his arm.

“ _Get up!_ ” The man spat in Romanian and held the boy in front of him.

He was using the boy as a human shield. What a coward.

The other guy was still not coming out of the trailer.

“You shoot me, I shoot him!” The man was waving his gun about as he called out into the trees in English, his back towards Napoleon, "We kill them all!"

He rolled his eyes, “Idiot,” Napoleon pulled the trigger, regretful that the boy had to see the man's head explode right in his face.

The child screamed in horror at the shock.

The heavy footsteps above him stopped dead, giving away the location of his final hostile. He pushed himself out from underneath the trailer with his legs and shot.

A split second too late.

The bullet buried itself in Napoleon’s left shoulder, the same second the remaining hostile fell over dead.

Well, crap.

The kill was followed by more high-pitched screams. There was so much screaming, Napoleon's ears rang.

Maybe…maybe he shouldn't have done that in front…in front of…

" _Dyadya!_ " Small fingers were tugging at his arm. It was the boy he had saved earlier.

Hmm…Russian.

Blue eyes, blond hair.

Just like Peril.

—

The next moment, he was opening his eyes to someone slapping him on his cheeks, and Illya’s mug right above him.

"Finally," Illya huffed in relief, "Stay with me, Cowboy."

He realised the rhythmic thumping in the background was actually the whirring of helicopter blades.

"Per- Ow."

Illya was putting a lot of pressure on his shoulder, "Too much blood."

"Where's…," Napoleon rolled his head over, not entirely sure what he was looking for.

"Gaby's fine. She's with the children."

The children? Right, the children which Napoleon had scarred for life.

"Oh. They…doing okay?" Napoleon sighed.

Illya laughed humourlessly, "What do you think?"

"You should really go help Gaby. I'll be fine. Calvary's here," Napoleon muttered.

"Shut up."

It didn’t feel like a win, despite having completed their mission without any civilian casualties. The fear he had seen in the boy’s eyes were eerily familiar. It reminded Napoleon of his fellow soldiers during the war. It had no place on a child's face. 

He could really use a nap right now.

"Stay awake, Cowboy," Illya tapped his face again.

Napoleon protested weakly, but was too tired to even move an inch.

"Stay awake!" Illya grunted as he pushed down harder on his shoulder.

—

When he woke again, it was an unfamiliar face hovering over him. Losing so much time was bad news.

The sounds of the helicopter was a lot louder now, the beat making his head throb painfully.

“Illya...,” Napoleon grimaced as he tried to move.

He was strapped down tight onto the stretcher.

The lady smiled, as she started to inflate the blood pressure cuff on his right bicep. He had forgotten all about his injured wrist until now, when the tightening cuff awakened the sharp ache in his limb.

“I’m Dr Ferguson. Your partners had to stay behind and help with clean up. We’re en route to a military hospital nearby, your commanding officer will be meeting us there,” She explained loudly into his ear.

Napoleon didn’t care too much if Waverly was there or not. His teammates, on the other hand, if Illya and Gaby were still working, that meant they weren't uninjured. That was good.

She frowned in disapproval at his readings, while removing the stethoscope from her ears and the cuff off his arm.

The snuggly fastened straps around his chest and thighs were making him feels claustrophobic, his breaths coming in short pants.

“Could you please unfasten these?” He gasped.

The doctor weighed her options for a second, before she loosened the straps slightly. It wasn't completely off him, but he now had room to wiggle his arm if he wanted. Not that he was going to do that, he was in enough pain lying still.

"Thank you," Napoleon flashed a grateful smile.

Maybe he should really tell the doctor that he could no longer feel his legs.

He let his heavy lids fall, exhaustion washing over him.

The last thing he heard…why was the pretty doctor yelling at him?

Was he dying?

—

"Stop it," Gaby scolded, eyes glued to the road in front of them as she swerved in and out of the lanes.

Illya sighed, "Sorry."

At least his too-long legs stopped bouncing up and down, knee smacking loudly onto the underside of the dashboard rhythmically.

"He'll be fine," Gaby said firmly.

It has to be true.

Gaby only managed to catch a glimpse of Solo before they loaded him onto the helicopter, looking paler than she had ever seen him. She also spotted the glistening pool of blood left behing by her teammate, only tearing her eyes away from the gore on the ground when Illya placed a hand on her shoulder to steer her away, "Gaby, come."

By the time they had finished up their work at the abandoned warehouse, it was already dawn. Gaby was reluctant to leave the children in the hands of the local law enforcement, but like Illya had said, they had done everything they could, and the children were in good hands. Waverly kindly updated them on Solo's condition two hours ago.

"He lost a lot of blood, as the bullet hit a vessel. He's in surgery now."

It wasn't particularly reassuring, but Gaby was not too worried. This was Napoleon Solo they were talking about. The American would never let something as inconsequential as a bullet to the shoulder bring him down.

Both of them were running on fumes, after the long day and an even longer night.

"You could sleep for a bit, you know? I don't mind," Gaby saw how Illya was struggling to keep his eyes open.

"No," Illya sat up straighter.

Ever so stubborn.

—

Illya walked into the bustling cafeteria, a stark contrast to the quiet, sterile room where Solo laid, motionless. It was the first time either of them were hurt badly enough to need a hospital since the start of UNCLE.

"He'll be out for a while. You should go back and get some rest," Waverly suggested.

"No," Illya crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Illya wasn't going to leave until Solo woke up.

Gaby shook her head, "Don't look at me, I'm not leaving either."

Eventually, Waverly gave up trying to kick them out of the hospital. But Illya compromised and agreed to at least visit the cafeteria with his boss to get them all something to eat.

"I must admit," Waverly said, when they were alone, "I am quite surprised at your attachment to Mr Solo, and Miss Teller. Pleasantly surprised, might I add."

"Sir?"

"When I first proposed the formation of the team, there were many who were sure that it was never going to work. That the three of you would never work."

"Huh."

Illya had thought so too. They have not been working together long, but Illya felt strangely at home with Cowboy and Gaby. It went against Illya's instinct as a Russian agent. He had been conditioned to think that every outsider was against him, against his country; and nobody can be trusted, especially not the Americans. So the easy relationship between him and Solo had unnerved him. They shouldn't get along, and Illya shouldn't feel so fiercely loyal to an American spy with a corrupt and criminal background, who was the opposite of everything Illya stood for. But he does.

Since his realisation, Illya had been waiting anxiously for the other shoe to drop, which he thought it did yesterday. Illya was quick to assume that the American was back to his thieving ways, simply because that would validate the belief which had been ingrained in him: 'Americans cannot be trusted!', and then he could go back to hating Americans like a normal Russian does.

"Well, in any case," Waverly smiled, "I'm glad it all worked out. Good job today, saved a lot of lives."

"Thank you, sir," Illya nodded.

"Very well. I'll be leaving for London tonight. I trust that you can take care of things here?"

"Yes sir."

With that, Waverly turned his heel and left.

—

Illya softly pushed open the door into the darkened room.

The blinds had blocked out most of the sunlight, leaving enough for him to make out Gaby's form sprawled across the couch in the room, and Solo…his eyes were opened, and staring right at Illya.

"You are awake," Illya crossed the room in two strides.

Napoleon hummed, and closed his eyes.

Illya thought that he had gone back to sleep, until he spoke up, "The kids?"

"Will be reunited with their families."

"Russian."

"Sorry?"

"The boy. He spoke Russian."

"Some taken from Russian soil, yes."

Solo blinked at him, "Can you sit? Your towering frame is making my neck ache."

Illya sat down, "I'm sorry I didn't trust you."

"Eh," Solo shifted in the bed, wincing, "I'm used to it."

Illya's hand hovered above Solo's shoulder in concern, "Don't move. Why?"

Solo raised an eyebrow, "Why? Do you really think, that anyone I worked with actually trusted me for a second?"

"The CIA?"

Solo coughed, groaning.

Illya uncapped the bottle of water he just bought at the cafeteria, “Water?”

Since Solo was already propped up with a stack of pillows, for his injured ribs, Illya just held the bottle to his mouth and tilted it slightly.

Solo licked his lips, “They watched me like a hawk. I'm used to it.”

“Huh. And UNCLE? Are they-”

“You’re up!”

Both men turned to Gaby on the couch.

“I am,” Solo smiled softly at Gaby.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Gaby groused, directing it at Illya.

“Need sleep, Gaby,” Illya shrugged, and turned back to Solo, “Is UNCLE watching you?”

Solo narrowed his eyes at Illya, “I don’t know, are they?”

“I’m not...If that is what you are asking.”

Illya never received any orders like that from Waverly. From Oleg, yes, but Oleg had asked him to keep tabs on everyone he met in UNCLE. Besides, he was sure that Solo had the same orders from Sanders.

“Hmm,” Solo glanced down, “Thanks, for saving my life.”

“Go off by yourself again and you are on your own,” Illya said, without meaning it in the very least.

Solo just smiled knowingly.

“Since you are okay, I’ll be heading back to the hotel for a real nap,” Gaby leaned down and kissed Solo on the cheek and then turned to Illya, “You coming?”

A refusal was on the tip of his tongue until Solo spoke up, “You should go with Gaby, get some sleep. You look terrible.”

“I do not!” Illya said indignantly, out of instinct.

Gaby grabbed onto his hand and started pulling him towards the door, "Come on, Illya. Solo needs his rest."

"Don't go anywhere," Illya wagged his index finger at Solo as he continued to get dragged out of the room.

"Not planning on it."

—

After a good night's sleep, Gaby's mind was finally cleared of cobwebs. And Illya looked a lot less like the undead.

"Illya, you-"

Gaby was interrupted by a soft knock on their door.

When she opened the door, her eyes narrowed, "You're not supposed to be here."

Solo was casually leaning against the door frame. Despite his arm being trapped in a triangular sling, he still looked as immaculately put together as ever. Gaby wondered how long it took him to put himself in his three-piece suit and style his hair single-handedly. He hadn't succeeded entirely though, there were still a few stray strands hanging against his forehead.

Solo sighed heavily, "I received a call earlier. I have to go back to New York, take care of some business."

Illya joined the both of them at the door, planting his hands at his waist, "CIA?"

He nodded stiffly.

"Well," Solo winced as he leaned down to pick up his luggage, "Just came down here to let you know. I'll…see you in a few weeks."

"Wait!" Gaby stopped him from turning away, "Let us come with. We're not on a mission right now, and I'm sure Waverly will be willing to give us a few days off."

She glanced at Illya, who just shrugged in agreement.

"There is no need," Solo said plainly.

Gaby grabbed Solo's bag and led him inside with a hand on his back despite his objections.

"Sit down. We're going to pack. Wait for us," She left him with no room for disagreement.

Illya nodded at her and proceeded to meticulously fold and pack their clothes into the luggage. They had shared a hotel room for long enough, that Illya was more than familiar with how Gaby liked her luggage organised. They were like a married couple. Minus the married part, and the couple part.

Gaby kept an eye on Solo as she dialled for Waverly on the phone. He had his head laid back onto the plush couch, eyes closed, looking very much like death warmed over.

He should still be in the hospital, not here.

"Miss Teller? Is everything alright?" Waverly answered after the first ring.

Gaby didn't really know what was happening. The one person who could fill them in was asleep on the couch, "I can't say. Solo's being called back to New York. I was thinking maybe Illya and I could tag along, in case he needs help."

"Hmm…I guess I should have warned you earlier.”

“What is it? What do they want with him?”

“Mr Sanders contacted me last night, informing me that he had ‘heard’ about what Mr Solo had done. Of course, I reassured him at once that it was all a misunderstanding, and in fact Mr Solo has been vital to the success of the mission. He was nonetheless insistent that they were going to conduct their own investigation.”

“He was the one who framed Solo!” Gaby was enraged. Why was Waverly allowing this?

“That would be…unwise to mention, Gaby. We do not have any proof of that accusation. Nevertheless, I will arrange for transport. The jet will be waiting for you at the airport in five hours’ time. Keep me informed once you’re there.”

Gaby fumed, “That’s it? You’re just going to let them do...whatever it is they’re planning to do to him?! You know, what? Forget it. We’ll deal with it ourselves.”

Gaby hung up. It was exceptionally rude of her, to be speaking to her superior so disrespectfully, but she had enough. Enough of being treated like pawns by their agencies, in the game of international espionage footsie between the different countries.

Maybe she just needed a break. They all did. They had been working non-stop since Rome

Solo blinked blearily at her from across the room.

“Is...everything alright?”

Gaby just nodded, “We have five hours,” She announced, “Get some rest.”

"Do you mind if I-," he pointed to the king-sized bed Gaby had shared with Illya.

"Of course not."

Gaby went over to help him up from the couch, "You should still be in a bed, you know? You lost a lot of blood."

"I've had worse."

"Doesn't make it any less painful, does it?" Gaby rebutted.

Solo smiled sadly, "No, it doesn't."

—

It took all of thirty seconds for Cowboy to fall asleep.

Yes, Illya counted. He had also checked the American for any elevation in his body temperature whilst helping him to take off his coat.

“So, what’s the plan?”Gaby asked.

Illya looked up, “Thought you have one.”

Gaby just shook her head.

“He has a plan,” Illya threw a look at their wounded teammate, “Wouldn’t have agreed to go back if he didn’t.”

“Didn’t sound like he has a choice,” Gaby lifted the coffee cup to her lips.

Illya knew that if Cowboy wanted to disappear, it wouldn’t be particularly difficult to do, under UNCLE’s comparatively lax supervision. So for him to go back to the CIA willingly, he must have a way out planned.

“Good spy will always have a plan,” he simply said, mirroring Gaby’s motion of sipping at his coffee.

The sun shone down brightly on them, making the river running in front of their hotel shimmer. It has become somewhat of a routine, the both of them drinking coffee and talking, whenever they have downtime during their missions.

“What’s your plan then?” Gaby asked.

Illya squinted through his sunglasses, “My plan? Lay low, not attract any attention.”

Even under UNCLE’s protection, it was a precarious position to be in, for a Russian agent like himself, when tensions were still running sky high between the two countries.

“That’s going to be hard, with you looking like well...you, and your accent.”

Illya smiled reassuringly at her, “Don’t worry, Gaby. In and out in no time.”

“Famous last words,” She scoffed.


	2. New York City

Napoleon slowly unclenched his aching jaw and melted back into his seat. The latest bout of turbulence had jostled...everything.

His shirt was soaked in cold sweat and stuck to him uncomfortably. But there was no way he would want to go through the trouble and pain of changing into a new shirt, so he resigned to being uncomfortable.

He tried catching a wink or two, but it was a struggle to find a comfortable position while strapped into the hard, unyielding bench. He had expected to find their usual private jet on the runway, but was greeted with a small military transport aircraft instead. Napoleon had been in enough of them to know that it was guaranteed to be an unpleasant ride across the Atlantic.

“Are you feeling alright?” Gaby asked, from across the aisle.

Napoleon sighed, his bruised ribs protesting the sharp exhale, “Not really, Gaby. But I’ll be fine.”

He hadn’t expected the two of them to tag along. And he still getting used to working in a team again. It had been nearly two decades since he had teammates whom he could trust, and that had been when they were shooting at Nazis on the battlefields together. Since then, the only person Napoleon trusted was himself.

But Gaby and Illya were slowly growing on him. The three of them worked well enough together, despite their drastically different backgrounds. Furthermore, Illya and Gaby actually cared whether he lived or died. That was a pleasant surprise.

On the other hand, it was a bad thing to get attached in their line of work.

"What happened to our jet?" Illya mused from behind his book.

Gaby shrugged, "This was an unexpected trip. They must have needed it somewhere else."

Napoleon sighed again, turning his head around to look through the window by his side. The clouds were bathed in the golden rays of the setting sun. A beautiful sight, which distracted him momentarily from his various aches and pains. If only there was a glass of Pinot Noir to go with that magnificent view.

These few months spent working for UNCLE had been a whirlwind of back-to-back missions, following years of back-to-back missions with the CIA. The only occasional respites he got during his decade-long career with the American spy agency was when he was too sick or injured to function.

No rest for the wicked, it seemed.

Napoleon had been looking forward to his two-weeks of medical leave, even though it came with the price of getting shot. The call he got from Sanders back in the hospital had made him cry tears of exhaustion and frustration. He just wanted those two weeks to himself god damn it.

He suddenly felt so tired of it all. Tired of the career which he didn’t choose, the life that wasn’t his, not really. All because he trusted the wrong person, who led him straight into the clutches of the CIA.

Napoleon just stared at the clouds, until his eyes lost focus and he finally drifted off.

“Hey,” A soft touch on his bicep woke him.

“We’re landing soon,” Gaby gave his forearm a gentle squeeze.

Napoleon groaned as he sat up straighter, checking his watch. Almost midnight. 

That gave him eight hours before he had to meet with Sanders.

It wasn't ideal to have let Illya and Gaby tag along to the meeting, but they would have followed him whether Napoleon liked it or not, so it would be a waste of his energy to argue further.

"Solo?"

Napoleon hadn't realised he had squeezed his eyes shut. He forced them open, the white hot painin his shoulder abating somewhat.

Illya was looking at him with a frown. Napoleon returned his frown with a questioning eyebrow.

Illya shook his head, and then frowned again, "You know what CIA wants?"

_"Solo."_

_"Sir," Napoleon had been surprised by Sanders' call._

_His ex-handler's barked, "I will see you here in New York, Thursday morning. Or you are going to find yourself in prison. For real this time."_

_"What?"_

_Napoleon was aware that he had no way out, even though he was innocent. Napoleon was the one who put word out on trying to sell the stolen art. And if the theft was orchestrated by Sanders, that meant he was in possession of the evidence, which he would be able to plant on Napoleon and spin the tale however he liked. Nobody was going to take Napoleon's side. They never did, and they never will._

_His time in UNCLE was probably over. Not even Waverly was going to be able to help him._

_"You may be able to fool Waverly, but not me, Solo. Never. I've shown you clemency, cleaned up your messes, and do you ever learn?"_

_"I-," Napoleon clenched his fist._

_What an obnoxious- If he could just punch Sanders in his stupid face-_

_He forced himself to take a deep breath. Blowing up on Sanders never ended well for him. It only served to make things worse for himself._

_"Where?"_

_"Eight a.m. sharp, Beverly Hotel, Lexington Avenue. Room four-oh-three," Sanders hung up without waiting for a reply, "And bring me my usual."_

_Napoleon briefly considered escaping there and then._

_He could fake his own death, live the rest of his life out up North…_

"Me. They want me," Napoleon answered truthfully, "What else?"

"You're with us now, they can't just…take you back," Gaby said naively.

"Sure they can. I'm only on loan to UNCLE, remember?"

He had been nothing but a tool to the CIA, like a particularly useful Swiss army knife. And they wanted their tool back. For a mission, perhaps?

He would find out soon enough.

—

Solo had conceded to having a bug planted inside the lapel of his jacket at least. Not without a lot of whining and grumbling. Illya almost gave into his urge to stuff his scarf in Solo's mouth to shut him up.

"Could get evidence. To prove you're innocent," Illya pinned the bug onto Solo and tapped on the device with his fingers to test it.

"Happy?" Solo rolled his eyes.

"Not happy, no," Illya turned the dial up on the radio and listened for the echo, "It's working."

They were fifteen minutes early when Gaby pulled up outside the hotel, even after making a long detour to a nondescript coffee house at the other side of downtown Manhattan, to pick up a steaming cup of black coffee for Solo's CIA handler.

At least Oleg never wasted Illya's time by treating him like his very own errand boy.

"We'll be round the corner," Gaby pointed ahead with her thumb.

"Thanks, Gaby," Solo smiled and opened the door.

Illya leaned back in the seat, the radio resting on his lap. He was second-guessing his decision to stay in the car. What if Solo needed back up? He should be nearer.

"Are you happy now that he might be taken off the team?" Gaby glanced at Illya through the rearview mirror.

"What you talking about?"

Despite his complains to Gaby about how the American gets on Illya's nerves, lamented about how he was a terrible spy, and how Illya didn't trust him; Illya didn't want him to leave. Sure, he had his doubts about the American for a long time, but Cowboy had proven Illya wrong over and over again, and had saved his life on various occasions.

Sometimes, Illya didn't mean the stuff that he said about Solo. He just didn't want Gaby to think that he was going soft for the American, that was not the Russian way. But yes, truth to be told, he was going soft. Illya didn't want Solo to be pried away from UNCLE. He knew how disgruntled Solo had been while he was working for the CIA, and nobody deserved to be treated like that, even a thief.

"You were so eager to feed him to the wolves just two days ago," Gaby pointed out with a smug look on her face.

"All the evidence! Everything pointed-," Illya sputtered, "You! Too!"

"No matter," he inhaled and held his hand up, "I was wrong. He is good spy. Good for the team."

"Well, let's hope there still is a team left after this."

"About time!" Adrian Sanders' voice crackled from the radio speakers.

Illya turned the volume up.

"Why am I here?"

"You're here because I ordered you to. You still answer to me, Solo. Don't ever forget that. Just because we have very kindly loaned you to the British temporarily, doesn't mean you're free."

"If that is the case, why go through all the trouble to frame me for the theft?"

"Always with the accusations. You have two choices. Get thrown into prison, your sentence has been extended, by the way, thanks to your latest heist, or…you go to Russia.”

“Russia?”

Illya straightened in his seat at the mention of his motherland.

"Yes. An agent of ours has unfortunately been tangled in a rather delicate situation in Moscow. He was undercover, in the administrative arm of the KGB, has been for over two years. It seems that he abandoned his post and has dropped off the radar. Nobody has heard from him in three weeks. You are to find him, before the KGB does."

"An extraction then?" Solo queried.

"No, Solo. Not an extraction."

"I'm on clean up duty? Fun," Solo scoffed, "The Russians know who I am. I'd rather be in an American prison than a Soviet one. No, thank you."

Solo paused before he spoke again, "Hold up, if you wanted me behind bars, you would have done it already. Why haven't you? You need me, specifically. Why?"

"Your position with UNCLE grants you certain…immunities in the Soviet regions, and UNCLE provides a convenient cover for executing the mission."

"Does Waverly know you're using him?"

"No. And he will not, clear?"

Illya and Gaby exchanged worried glances. He gulped.

This was serious. An American sleeper agent in the KGB.

If Illya didn't report this to Oleg, he would be committing treason. If he did, he could get Cowboy killed. Not to mention how UNCLE could be dissolved if Solo got caught. The KGB would never work with them ever again.

Solo stayed silent. No doubt calculating his next move.

Sanders' voice grew louder as he stepped closer to Solo, "Fifteen more years, or this: one last mission."

"Last, sir?"

"A fair trade-off, don't you think?"

“No, it isn’t,” Solo’s tone was laced with suspicion.

“The sovereignty of the nation is at stake. The director has called for us all to make do with some necessary…sacrifices," Sanders sounded bitter.  
Illya almost wished that he hadn't bugged Cowboy and overhear the conversation. If he didn't have the knowledge of what was happening, things could have been simpler.

Gaby spoke up hesitantly, "Do you think he will…"

Illya and Gaby were almost touching heads, with their ears pressed up against the radio. 

Before Illya could reply, Sanders spoke again, "I see that your new friends are in town too."

Solo huffed, "Don't."

“I am simply suggesting, the KGB agent may be-”

Solo cut him off, “No.”

There were sounds of paper rustling, and a heavy sigh from Cowboy, “Will you excuse me for a minute?”

There were footsteps on tiled floor.

The bathroom.

Illya wished the bug supported two-way communication so that he could yell at Cowboy not to do it.

Another sigh from Solo, "I'm sorry."

Static followed after Solo destroyed the device.

Fortunately, Illya had the foresight to hide a tracker in his shoes while he was sleeping back at the hotel. There was no way Illya was going to let Cowboy out of his sight from this moment on.

—

Gaby’s gripped the wheel with white knuckles. Should she drive off now, before Solo returned? Save him the trouble of deciding how to get rid of them? Would he actually hurt them?

Illya silently brooded in the backseat, with a deep frown etched on his forehead. Was he mad? He probably was. Gaby doubted she would be able to break up a physical fight between the boys if they decided to get it on.

She was about to ask Illya what he was thinking when the door to the passenger seat flung opened.

Gaby gasped, instinctively bringing her gun up to the intruder.

"Gaby," Solo froze, his free hand held up in surrender.

She put the gun away, “You startled me.”

He muttered an apology while he climbed into the car, twisting his torso to look at Illya in the backseat.

"I'm sorry," Solo sighed, "For dragging you two into this mess with me," he narrowed his eyes Illya, "You're not going to tell on me, are you?"

Their Russian friend just shrugged and stared out the window.

"Illya-," Solo started.

"What do we do?" Gaby asked.

She hoped that he had a plan.

Solo brought his hand up to his temple, "First, let us go back to the hotel, shall we? It has been a trying day."

Gaby obeyed, pulling out of the parking spot. She checked her mirrors for any tails, just like how Illya had taught her to do.

"Black car," Gaby reported, "Following us."

Illya finally broke his silence, "Just drive. They already know where we stay."

—

It was a different balcony, hanging over a different scenery, people speaking a different language, and they were in a different mess. A much bigger mess this time.

"So?" Gaby asked, looking up towards Illya.

An hour ago, Gaby had just gotten off the phone with Waverly, who had ordered them to head to Moscow, for a new mission, no doubt based on fake intelligence planted by the Americans.

_"It should take you no more than two weeks, it is pretty straight-forward. After that, you three can have the break you've asked for."_

_"Umm sir, this mission…"_

_"Yes, Agent Teller?"_

_"Nothing. Umm…We'll be careful. Uh, I'll go let the boys know."_

Gaby had chickened out of confessing the truth to Waverly, and then proceeded to panic about the consequences. What if she was fired? Would she be sent back to East Berlin, behind the wall? Surely, she would be hunted down and killed?

What if she never saw Illya ever again?

"Gaby," Illya placed his hand on hers, "This job…Sometimes we make hard decisions. Affects whole countries, whole world even."

Ever since Gaby was recruited by Waverly, she hadn't given much thought to what she was doing, who she was helping, in the grand scheme of things. It was her ticket out of East Berlin, and she would be stupid to not take it.

But who was she loyal to? She had joined the British for her own protection, not out of loyalty or patriotism to anyone.

"What is our job?" Gaby pondered.

"Follow orders," Illya said, a glimmer of doubt in his eyes blunting his unwavering tone.

"But what if our orders are…wrong?"

"Does it matter?" Illya sighed, "Wrong, right, not up to us."

Gaby gritted her teeth, "So what, you'll tell Oleg about Solo? You know that'll get him killed. You'll do that? And for what? Honour? Glory? Loyalty?"

The master which Illya served was far from innocent. Gaby would know first hand, having lived behind the Iron Curtain. She also knew that Illya was not to blame entirely. The KGB had trained the defiance out of Illya. It must be intimidating for him to even entertain the thought of breaking ranks and working against the KGB.

"I have to," Illya's hands were clenched into fists, "He shouldn't have agreed to the mission then."

"Were we even listening to the same conversation? You heard what the American said, Solo had no choice. You want him to go to jail? Or continue working with the CIA? Those guys are going to get him killed sooner or later."

"It was his punishment."

"What? No! This is a punishment for a crime he did not commit. He didn't steal that painting. It is blackmail!" Gaby almost yelled.

"Still a thief," Illya grumbled, "Sometimes."

"Doesn't mean he deserves to die!"

"I know, Gaby!" Illya snapped, "I know that."

"Then why would you say so?"

"Because! They will know. They always know. And then what? We all lose."

Gaby gasped, suddenly afraid for all of them, "Is there any way where we don't…lose?"

"Working on it," Illya downed his cup of coffee in one gulp and stepped away from the balcony.

—

Illya carefully arranged the black and white pieces on the chessboard, according to their places since he had last left them before their plane ride over to New York.

He had moved into Solo's room, making good on his promise of not letting Solo out of his sight. The American had unexpectedly given in to having his privacy invaded without much fuss, except to roll his eyes in annoyance before collapsing onto the bed to catch up on his sleep.

Solo slept the whole afternoon away, occasionally waking himself when he accidentally shifted into a painful position.

Illya advanced the white rook to capture a black pawn.

He couldn't bring himself to just turn a blind eye and not help Solo, because there was no way the American was going to succeed without Illya's help.

Illya knew the KGB. Astronomical odds were stacked against Solo. It was basically a deathtrap for him, who was still very much injured. Why would the CIA not send someone more…dispensable for such a suicide mission, instead of their best agent? Solo's UNCLE immunity was not going to help very much.

Illya would have to stop him before he got himself killed…or help him.

Solo was right. Illya chuckled humourlessly to himself. He really was getting very soft. This was not like him. He's had partners in the past, but Illya had never treated them more than back-up. Why was he so invested this time?

Everything would have been so much easier if he had killed Solo in Rome.

The black queen crossed the board lengthwise, capturing the white rook.

Illya knew how the KGB operated like the back of his hand. He knew what moves his colleagues were trained to make, how they were trained to think. On the flip side, they could also see his moves from a mile away. He would have to be unpredictable, and not think like a KGB agent.

White queen to E8. Check.

They would be surveilled heavily once they touched down on Soviet soil, that was without question. At least the CIA had provided them with a convenient cover by involving UNCLE. They would have to find a way to search for the missing rogue agent, without actually seeming like they were doing just that.

Solo cut off their audio feed and had kept the details of the mission to himself, making Illya's job that much harder. But it wasn't something he couldn't solve.

What if…Illya was the one to find and kill the guy instead of Solo?

Black queen to A1. Checkmate.

—

There was a warm body beside him in bed. He hadn't turned around to look, but there was no question who it was. He knew that cologne, had smelled it almost every day for the past few months.

Why was Illya sleeping in the same bed as…Oh. Napoleon groaned, feeling the bite of the metal enclosed tightly around his wrist.

It was getting too warm under the thick duvet, but he was stuck. One of his arms was handcuffed to his immobile giant of a teammate, and his other shoulder was throbbing painfully in the sling.

"Illya," Napoleon nudged him, "Kuryakin!"

Illya's eyes snapped open, "What?"

"I need to get up, let me up."

"Sorry," Illya sat up promptly and unlocked the handcuffs, "Didn't want you to sneak off."

Napoleon sighed in annoyance.

The inclusion of Illya and Gaby in his mission complicated things. While he was thankful for their help, he wished that they would just let him go to Moscow, alone. He didn't want to be responsible for getting them hurt, or killed. He wouldn't be able to live with it.

This was his mess. They shouldn't have to put their career and lives on the line to help him clean it up.

Napoleon threw the duvet off of him and leveraged himself out of bed with gritted teeth.

"You're hot," Illya said.

"Excuse me?" He must have misheard.

"Hot. Fever," Illya frowned.

"It's…nothing to worry about, Peril," Napoleon shook his head.

He had been down this road before. Multiple times. Based on his previous experiences, he would be feeling quite miserable for the next few days, while he healed. Regrettable, but it was not a huge problem. He could still do his job.

"Here," Illya held out a glass of water in front of him, "Waverly is sending the plane for us at noon."

Napoleon took the offered glass and just nodded in acknowledgement.

In the meantime, he should take a shower, eat something, but he couldn't muster the energy to do either of those things, or anything at all, really. He settled for adding a healthy pour of scotch into the glass and gulping it all down in one go.

"I was thinking…about Moscow plan," Illya started.

"Easy. You and Gaby distract your people, and Waverly. While I chase down our mystery man and-," he mimicked a gun at his temple with his fingers.

"No," Illya stepped towards him, "Too obvious."

"Obvious for whom? Nobody knows anything about my real mission," Solo shrugged, "Not even you."

At least this way, Gaby and Illya would still have a way out. They could simply deny their involvement with Solo's CIA mission if things went south and he got caught.

Illya took a deep breath, "I'll do it."

Napoleon gaped, "Peril, if the KGB found out that you betrayed them…"

"They won't," Illya said confidently, "I'm a good spy."

Napoleon couldn't help but laugh, "Yeah…I can't let you do that."

"Let me?" Illya raised an eyebrow in challenge, "You cannot stop me."

That was unfortunately true. Napoleon was in no shape to win a fight, and as eloquent and persuasive he is, there was no changing Kuryakin's mind once it was made. That didn't stop him from trying.

"Peril, you can't. Your mother, she's still living in Novosibirsk, isn't she?"

Illya never liked to talk about his family, but Napoleon had gathered enough breadcrumbs from unintentionally overhearing the Russian's phone conversations with his mother from time to time.

"I won't get caught," Illya claimed.

"See, that's what I thought too, when I stepped foot into that fateful vault in Montmartre," Napoleon sighed, "Not even you can know that with absolute certainty. It's safer this way. Safer for you, Gaby, your mother. I'll take care of it, you just have to keep your Soviet comrades off my back. Think you can manage that?"

Illya opened his mouth, and then closed it, before narrowing his eyes at Napoleon, "Nice try, but no. I'll do it."

"Are you absolutely sure?" Napoleon narrowed his eyes in suspicion. If this was some kind of elaborate ploy to set him up…

"Yes. And if you try to stop me, I will lock you in a closet."

He was not entirely sure if Illya was joking or not. It was always difficult to tell with the Russian.

Well, he had given it his best shot. Illya's plan did have some merit. That was settled then, they were going with Illya's plan whether Napoleon liked it or not.

For now.

—

The night Illya had spent in the same bed as Solo was surprisingly restful.

It cleared his mind of cobwebs which comes with the exhaustion after a particularly difficult mission. His roommate on the other hand, looked like he had barely slept, even though Solo had spent almost all of yesterday unconscious.

Illya was almost swayed by Solo's arguments, when he brought up mama. Illya hasn't seen her in years, but still sends her his cheques, checks in on her through frequent phone calls, which nobody was supposed to overhear. Having a loved one is a spy's greatest vulnerability, after all. Illya had unintentionally let his guard down, working and living with Gaby and Solo 24/7, and sometimes didn't realise that he was actually talking to his mother with his teammates still in the room. Gaby didn't know enough Russian to eavesdrop on his conversation, but Solo does. The American is almost fluent in Illya's mother tongue.

It was information which Solo could use to threaten and blackmail Illya, and he had been legitimately worried at how vulnerable his mama was. The first time Illya realised, he was almost entertaining the thought of killing Solo again, just for knowing where mama lived.

"I called Gaby up," Solo announced from the other side of the room, "I should brief you both, discuss our play, before we get on the jet."

"It's not play," Illya huffed.

"Really Peril? It's just an expression," Solo scoffed, "I'm going to take a shower. Could I trouble you to order us some food, please?"

"Mmm," Illya called for room service while he watched Solo slowly straighten from the couch and make his way to the bathroom, steadying himself against the walls and furniture along the way.

Illya winced in sympathy at the stiff, careful gait. He himself was no stranger to pushing through injuries and sicknesses. It was expected in their line of work. Wars don't stop being plotted, crimes don't stop being committed, and good spies are short in supply. Illya knew he was good at his job. Solo was too, not that Illya would ever tell him that. Therefore, no rest for them.

Illya turned his attention back to his coffee and chessboard, but kept an ear out for any sounds of distress from the bathroom.

Illya sighed as he thought back to the call with Oleg earlier that morning. His KGB superior ordered him to keep an eye on Solo and to report his every move, however minute. Illya expected intense scrutiny from the KGB, but hearing it from Oleg made him a little worried about their chances of completing the mission without the KGB finding out about it.

A knock on the door interrupted his next move on the chessboard.

"Gaby," he greeted with a smile, "Have you eaten? Think I ordered too much food," he gestured to the covered plates of food on the table. He was unsure of what Solo would be up to eating, and had ordered a bit of everything.

"Oh, I am starving. Don't mind if I help myself," Gaby's eyes lit up at the spread, "Where's Solo?"

Illya nodded his head towards the bathroom. The shower turned off.

Gaby chewed on her bottom lip, "Well…I've been giving some thought to what you said."

"What I said?"

"About how our decisions could spark war and conflict and all that," Gaby started on a piece of turkey, "So…I was thinking, what if I…took down the CIA agent on his behalf?"

Illya was just about to protest when Gaby cut him off with a hand on his arm.

"No Illya, listen. If the KGB found out about Solo and the CIA mole, it'll give them enough fuel to wage a war against the Americans. Besides, Oleg didn't specifically order you to watch me. You won't have to lie to him. And nobody is going to suspect-"

"Gaby," Solo emerged from the bathroom in a bathrobe, hair still wet from his shower

"How do you feel?" Gaby asked, temporarily distracted by Solo's arrival.

"Better. The shower helped," Solo motioned to the couch, "Shall we begin?"

"As I was saying to Illya earlier," Gaby continued where she left off, "Maybe I should be the one to carry out your mission. You were shot and-"

No matter what she said, Illya was never going to allow that to happen. He wasn't going to risk losing Gaby, not to mention that she was the least experienced of them all. This was a mission they couldn't afford to fail at.

"No way, chop-shop girl," Illya barked, "You've never even-"

Gaby fumed, "I am not a chop-shop girl anymore. I don't need you to baby me!"

"You think you can put bullet in someone? Kill without hesitation?" Illya challenged.

Gaby paused, and Illya heaved a sigh of relief that it was over. During all of their missions, Gaby hadn't actually killed a single hostile. Solo and Illya had taken on the burden themselves, through an unspoken agreement.

"Teach me how. I'm a fast learner," Gaby said with determination, "I've come so far, haven't I?"

Illya exploded, "No! I will not-"

"Gaby," Solo spoke calmly, cutting through their heated argument at once, "Peril's volunteered."

"You? Illya Kuryakin?" Gaby huffed in disbelief, "Illya, you're uncomfortable with even lying to Oleg. And now you're telling me that you are willing to work against the KGB, be a traitor?"

Illya just shrugged, "Lesser of evils. No more argument."

Gaby scowled at him, but dropped the issue for the moment.

"Great. Now that that's settled," Solo smiled tightly.

He began the briefing without referring to any notes, not that he needed any, Solo has a good memory.

"Our man's name is Richard Gardner. Born and bred in Chicago. His mother is Ukrainian, and his father is Irish. He has been with the CIA ever since he finished school, earned all sorts of honours, and was sent to Moscow to gather Soviet Union and KGB intelligence under the name of Alek Vasiliev, taking his mother's last name. Deep cover mission, he was supposed to be stationed in Moscow for the whole duration of the cold war."

Illya's fist clenched. This. This was the information the KGB would kill to get their hands on. If Illya wanted to, he could have simply relayed the briefing to Oleg, and it would be enough information for his comrades to set a trap for Solo and Gardner. The capture of not one, but two prolific CIA agents would most likely earn Illya a big promotion through the ranks of the KGB.

"He was supposed to check in monthly, through a secure line in the safe house, but he missed his last check in, quit his job at the KGB. Nobody has heard from him in weeks. Safe house was abandoned, but we don't think that his cover has been blown…yet, because the alternative would be very very bad for us," Solo spared a glance at Illya, "I really hope that we are not stepping into an ambush."

"Anyway, we have to find him without the Russians realising what is up. And since we are almost certainly going to get tailed once we arrive, we will need a plan," Solo hung his head to think, "I suggest we meet with Oleg, under the guise of briefing him on our UNCLE-sanctioned mission, see what he knows, maybe ask him for some help to throw him off our scent. Then, we split up. Any questions?"

It was a pretty well-thought out plan, given the circumstances. However, Oleg will not be fooled that easily. Illya would have to give him some dirt on Solo sooner or later, to convince his handler of Illya's unwavering loyalty to the KGB.

Gaby raised a finger in question, "How do we even find the guy? Where he might be? Why did he go missing?"

"I don't have a clue where he is, but I know someone who might," Solo frowned in concentration, "He had a wife, now ex-wife, who went to Moscow a week before he went MIA. She's Russian, and her family is still living in the city. More specifically, Odintsovo. I suggest we start there."

"What about Waverly? The UNCLE mission?" Gaby asked.

Solo shrugged nonchalantly, "Well, we went, we surveilled, and then nothing. Intel was wrong. It happens. Peril, any thoughts?"

"We go with your plan," Illya agreed and rose from the couch, "I call Oleg. You eat, leave soon."

He watched them eat, while he waited for Oleg to pick up.

_"Hello?"_

_"It's me. We're taking off in two hours."_

_"Do you have something to report?"_

Illya took a deep breath to quell the nervous tremble in his hands, _"Yes. Solo's planning something. I overheard him talking to Sanders, he thought I was in the shower."_

Illya was improvising. Hopefully this was enough for Oleg to focus his attention and suspicion on the American, and leave Illya alone to do Solo's dirty work for him..

 _"Is he now,"_ Oleg deliberated _, "What is he planning?"_

Illya needed to come up with a fake secret mission for Solo. It cannot be something too big, least Oleg considers Cowboy as a threat to national security, and needed to disappear. And it also has to be something completely different from the real CIA mission.

His teammates were exchanging laughs on the couch, too engrossed in their own conversation to help Illya out.

 _"Yes. He is planning to get info. Case information on a particular KGB mission, happened in 1958,"_ he threw out a year off the top of his head.

He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist. This was not him. This was not what he does. Illya was so out of his depth, he could feel the biting cold winds of Siberia, somewhere Oleg kept threatening to send him to if he even stuck a toe out of line.

_"Anything else?"_

_"Negative."_

Oleg grunted _, "Find out more,"_ and hung up.

His handler was no doubt going to follow up on the lead, find out why the Americans would be interested in that piece of information.

Illya had to take a few minutes to calm down, opening and closing his hands, before the tremors subsided.

"Peril?"

Illya stepped away from the corner, "Da?"

"All good?" Solo checked.

He nodded jerkily.

"Hope you don't mind, sending Oleg after you," Illya was not sure if Solo would be mad at him for doing that.

"Hmm," Solo's expression was contemplative.

He filled them both in about his short conversation with Oleg.

"I can deal with that," Solo ducked his head.

Later, when they were about to depart for the airport, Solo caught him at the door with a hand on Illya's elbow, "Illya."

"Cowboy?"

Solo pursed his lips with deliberation, "Last chance. Are you absolutely sure you want to do this? I would mind terribly, if you got hurt, because of me."

"Going soft, Cowboy?" Illya threw Solo words back at him.

Solo chuckled softly, and then sighed, "I think I am, Peril. I think I am."


	3. Moscow

Gaby sighed when their pilot announced their imminent landing. Waverly managed to put them on their usual, more luxurious jet for this mission. It was way better than that crappy old military plane. Her bum was still aching from bouncing on the hard seats on that plane during the turbulent ride. But the most luxurious of leather seats could not distract Gaby from their current situation.

Illya replaced the receiver into its holder on the wall, and twisted around to look at them, "Oleg will be waiting for us outside south gate."

"Thank you, Peril."

Solo glanced at Gaby from across the aisle, "We'll do fine."

He had abandoned the sling, when did that happen?

"Uh huh," Gaby glanced out the window, but all she could see was black. Apprehension gnawed at her stomach. She was not particularly religious, but she prayed that they would all make it out alive. She would much rather not be stuck behind the iron curtain, or iron bars.

Death would be a mercy, if they were caught.

"Here," Solo passed her a glass of scotch, "For good luck."

"We're going to need a whole damn bottle," Gaby emptied the glass in three seconds.

This reminded her of her first mission, in Rome, when she had to meet Uncle Rudi alone and try to infiltrate the Vinciguerra base to find her biological father. She was not lying when she told Illya that she was scared. She wasn't brought up in this life after all, and the things she had to do and see…was a tough pill to swallow.

For their subsequent UNCLE missions, she would always end up with the safest-possible role in their plans, like waiting for them in the hidden getaway car. It got frustrating quickly. How was she going to learn anything if they didn't let her do anything?

After Gaby voiced her displeasure and argued her case, the guys finally relented and began to let her tag along as back up. Solo even started allowing her to try her hand at safe-cracking during their missions, while he watched over her.

After Rome, Gaby was no longer afraid. She trusted that her two very competent and deadly teammates would watch her back. Illya promised that he wouldn't let anything happen to Gaby, and he had kept that promise ever since. But in Moscow, even UNCLE wouldn't be able to protect them if the Russians decided to stop playing nice. They were all vulnerable here, subjected to the mercy of the KGB, which was not known for being merciful.

"It's cold," Gaby dug her hands deep inside the pockets of her jacket as they stepped off the plane.

A blizzard was brewing.

"Here," Illya unwound the scarf on his neck and wrapped it around hers.

It was still warm with his body heat, and it retained the smell of Illya's cologne. Gaby snuggled her chin into it.

Just like Illya had mentioned, Oleg was waiting for them beside the exit of the small private airport, with just two of his KGB agents by his side.

"Хорошо, что ты вернулся, Kukryakin," Oleg nodded at Illya.

Gaby's grasp of Russian was a work in progress. She glanced at Solo curiously, who gave a reassuring smile.

"Good to see you again, Mr Solo," Oleg put his left hand up for a handshake.

Solo grasped it with his injured arm without even a hint of a wince.

"And you are Miss Teller. We have not met."

"Pleasure," Gaby removed her glove and shook his hand.

"Kuznetsov will take you both to your accommodation," Oleg said gruffly and gestured one of the agents over to them with a finger, "Have a good night's rest, I will see you tomorrow morning."

It didn't escape her that Illya was not included in those plans. The question was on the tip of Gaby's tongue, but Solo spoke up before she did, "Thank you. We'll see you in the morning."

—

Gaby dropped the suitcase onto the stair landing and leaned over it to take a breather. The narrow and barely lit stairwell seemed to go on and on. Not to mention that she had volunteered to carry the heavier case containing all of their equipment, seeing that Solo was still hurt.

"Here, let me," he came up behind her.

Gaby just punched his hand away, "No."

She was a spy, she could carry their spy equipment up a measly five flights of stairs.

Seriously. The two of them needed to stop treating her like a damsel in distress, because she could definitely pull her own weight.

Solo just waited patiently, until she got her breath back, and they trudged on.

"Five-eighteen. Finally," Gaby let out a triumph huff when they arrived at their apartment.

Apartment 5-18 was very kindly provided by their KGB host, which was no doubt bugged to the gills. There was no point in trying to remove the bugs either, they would just be replaced once Gaby and Solo leaves the apartment.

"Chic place," Gaby took in the barely furnished space. There was a huge water stain on the ceiling, and the paint was starting to peel off the walls.

The heat was off, and Gaby's sweat-soaked clothing was starting to chill. She shuddered.

"Only this time, I can't promise the food is going to be any good," Solo frowned at the basic kitchen.

Gaby took a peak down the hallway, "There are two separate bedrooms at least. Does that mean that Illya isn't going to stay with us for the entirety of the mission?"

She dropped her bag into the bedroom furthest away from the hall. It had a nicer view than the other one, the other one lacked windows.

"That I do not know," Solo was inspecting the radiator in the corner of the apartment, "I expect they have a lot to talk about. Debriefing…and all that," he waved his hand in the air.

"We should go over the…," Gaby trailed off with a loud yawn and another shiver ran through her.

Solo's lip quirked in amusement, "Gaby dear, I don't think either of us are up to going over anything tonight. Go warm up in the shower. I'll make us some hot tea."

Gaby obliged gladly.

The small bathroom was illuminated with a single yellowed bulb hanging off the ceiling, swaying slightly and casting moving shadows all over the walls. The space was clean at least.

The apartment reminded Gaby of her place back in East Berlin. Now that she had a taste of freedom, ritz, and glamour, it was a jarring reminder of how much she would hate to go back to her old life.

The hot water loosened up her stiff muscles and chased away the chill in her aching bones. If not for the CIA, they could have been on a vacation somewhere warm, in a posh hotel worthy of Solo's expensive taste. Gaby could have spent the day huddled under the blankets in the big, warm bed…while Illya stares intently at his chessboard beside her…

Illya…What would he be-

Gaby yelped when the spray suddenly became ice-cold. She leaped out of the shower, shivering.

"Is everything alright in there?"

"Uh huh," her teeth chattered.

What would Illya be doing?

—

Napoleon pushed the steaming mug across the table. Gaby entered the kitchen in her pyjamas, drying the ends of her hair with a small green towel.

"Is there milk?" Gaby asked.

He glanced at the fridge, "No, the fridge is empty. Unfortunately."

"That's okay," She took a seat at the table, "I'm sorry, I used up all the hot water."

He had deduced from the scream coming from the bathroom earlier. He shook his head, smiling.

They sipped at their tea in silence. Gaby had both legs folded beneath her on the chair, her hair bundled up in the towel. She looked smaller and younger than she already is, and Napoleon could see why Illya could sometimes be, in his opinion, overprotective of Gaby.

Napoleon knew not to underestimate Gaby. The woman could hold her own in a fight. She may be overpowered, but she fights dirty. She's also quick-witted, resourceful, and unpredictable. Her small stature gave her the advantage of agility and speed.

She was a great team member, even though she was still very green. With a few more years of training and experience under her belt, she could become a formidable spy.

"Do you," Gaby covered the mug with both her hands, "think Illya's gonna…"

Napoleon pursed his lips.

Illya might be good at lying, it is after all, their bread and butter; but lying to the KGB would take a lot more disloyalty than their Russian friend might be able to muster. And if Kuryakin betrayed him, well, Solo was a dead man. And Napoleon would very much prefer to not be dead, not when he was almost at the finish line. His freedom was so close, he could taste it.

Napoleon settled for, "I think Peril would do just fine."

Gaby bid him goodnight and retreated into her room. And after washing up, Napoleon also retreated into his room.

He sighed at his reflection in the mirror hanging in his windowless room. He certainly looked better than he felt.

Napoleon undid the top three buttons of his shirt to check his shoulder. He had been taking his antibiotics dutifully, so it shouldn't be giving him any trouble. His range of motion was still very limited, but if everything goes according to plan, Napoleon wouldn't need to find out exactly how much of a problem that would pose to the team.

He couldn't stop thinking about a million things which could go wrong. What if Illya couldn't find the guy? What if Illya got found out? What if Illya betrayed him?

He cringed at the severe bruising all over his shoulder and chest. It had turned all black now, an unflattering look on him, or anybody really.

It could have been worse.

He could have been dead instead.

He could be all alone in this dingy apartment, with no one but his own thoughts for company.

But there he was, standing on his own two feet, heart still beating. Gaby and Illya were there with him, because they cared enough about him.

He could get used to this.

—

Sleep evaded Illya, even though he knew that he needed it. Oleg had put him up in one of the rooms in the KGB dormitories. He hasn't been back here since his training days. Being back in the building, with everything looking exactly the same as when he left it, was dredging up feelings of nostalgia.

It had been a much simpler time then. All Illya had to concern himself with was to do as he was told, perfectly. He didn't need to worry about the what if's or the why's, just the 'how', and he was good at figuring out exactly that. Despite it being extremely tough, but Illya enjoyed his training at the KGB. There was not a single exercise or test he didn't excel at, and younger him had revelled in the commendations and honours bestowed to him by his superiors.

It was after his training, after he was released into the real world, when he was carrying out horrendous missions in the name of patriotism, that he started to lose his rose-tinted glasses.

Training was one thing, but murdering a young family in cold blood just to send a message, was another.

Illya lived by the mantra: It was for the good of the Soviet Union, for the good of its people, and by extension, his family.

That was not nearly enough, and Illya continued to struggle.

Over time, he had become more disillusioned, and Oleg had resorted to threats. Threats against him, against his mother. The threats worked. From then on, it was just easier for Illya to follow orders, without a care whether it was moral or not. It wasn't like he knew how to do anything else.

Napoleon Solo had come along and awakened those deeply buried feelings of doubt in Illya. How the American managed to do that, Illya didn't know. Maybe it was because Solo had saved his life, or maybe it was because Solo gave him back his father's watch. Maybe it was all of the above, or none of the above.

Illya just knew that Solo and Gaby mattered more to him, a lot more than Oleg and the KGB right now.

"Illya Nickovitch, _Ser_ ," Someone knocked on the door.

Illya swung his legs out of bed at once and opened the door, " _Da_?"

He towered over the junior agent sent by Oleg, making the man shrink into himself a little, " _Oleg is asking for you, sir._ "

Illya nodded his acknowledgement and shut the door in the agent's face.

—

Oleg sent him off pick up Cowboy and Gaby from their accommodation for their meeting.

 _"Take your time. Bring them to breakfast. Find out what the American knows,"_ Oleg demanded.

He had followed up on Illya's intel, and narrowed it down to one particular mission, the others being decidedly unremarkable.

The older Russian was adamant that Solo was after the details of a top secret mission, in which the KGB stormed a laboratory in Volgograd to prosecute its head scientist for treason. The scientist was secretly researching immunities and antidotes to the deadly chemical weapons developed by the KGB, and had intended to sell his research to enemies of the USSR.

It was just Illya's luck. Why did he have to say-

Illya sighed to himself.

No matter, what's done was done.

He just have to convince Oleg that Solo didn't know anything about KGB's secret chemical weapon stash, and didn't manage to found anything out during their trip here. However, it still wasn't a guarantee that Solo wouldn't disappear, if Oleg truly wanted to leave no loose ends untied. That being said, killing Solo would bring the KGB more trouble than it was worth, garnering even more scrutiny from the CIA onto them. It wouldn't be a wise move tactically, and Oleg was a smart man.

 _"And your leave is approved. Send my regards to your mother,"_ Oleg dismissed Illya with a flick of his wrist.

_"Thank you, sir."_

Fortunately, the KGB had been so focused on Solo, that he didn't really care about what Illya might be doing with his leave of absence for the weekend.

He could finish the job in two days, and they would be safely back on the jet, on their way away from Moscow.

—

"Gaby," Illya greeted her with a hug when she opened the door, "Good morning."

"Good morning, Illya."

"Ready to go? I'll bring you to my favourite breakfast," Illya's eyes roamed the apartment, eyes landing on Solo at the dining table, reading a Russian newspaper, "Solo."

Solo put down his paper with a wry grin, "Am I invited?"

Illya drove them to the place he was sure to visit whenever he was in Moscow. The shop reminded Illya of his mama's cooking.

The elderly owner eyed them suspiciously when they entered the small establishment, _"My boy, why would you bring an American here. I don't want any trouble."_

 _"Don't worry, there won't be any trouble,"_ Illya had assured, rolling his eyes at Solo, who had grinned stupidly at the old lady as if he hadn't understood a word.

Solo gestured to his ear, and Illya shook his head, "No bug. Bug in apartment. Oleg trusts me to do my job."

"And your job is…" Solo trailed off.

"Make sure you two behave."

They discussed their plan for the UNCLE mission over breakfast, divided the shifts for surveillance. Napoleon would also break in to the target's office and rummage through some documents and break open some safes, because why not.

Illya cleared his throat, "Oleg approved my leave for the weekend."

Solo nodded, "Great. Everything's going according to plan."

Gaby's brows furrowed, "I know we've been through this, but I still think I should come along with you."

Illya narrowed his eyes at her, "No."

Gaby was pouting, "I will be much more useful if I went with you, then sitting on my arse doing nothing at all."

Illya looked at Solo for support, but the American just shrugged.

"Nyet! Nein! No! Not happening," Illya hissed.

"You don't even know what you're heading into! So many things can go wrong, you need someone to watch your back."

If Gaby thought that Illya would let her come with, she was delusional.

"Gaby," Solo finally chimed in, "I think Illya's right. It's safer if you stayed. Besides, you'll blow Illya's cover."

"I don't want to be safer! I want to help!" Gaby grumbled under her breath, "You could tell Oleg that we're dating and you're bringing me home to see your mother."

Illya startled at Gaby's suggestion and the porridge went down the wrong pipe.

He spluttered, coughing.

Solo slapped him on his back, then turned to Gaby, "You are helping," Solo placed his hand on top of hers, "By helping to keep the heat off Peril. I know it's frustrating to feel like we're wasting our time on this…UNCLE mission, believe me I know, I'm never good at waiting, but I trust that Peril will take care of it."

"Right, Peril?"

Illya sighed.

"Finish up," Illya said to them, scooping the last of his porridge, "I'll take you to Oleg for briefing."

—

Napoleon was yanked aside by Illya as he reached for the door handle.

"Go on, Gaby," Illya nodded at Gaby, "We'll just take a minute or two."

She nodded back and climbed into the drivers' seat.

"Shouldn't…Gaby be in on this too?"

"This is not about her. About you," Illya tugged on his elbow, "Do you trust me?"

Illya must have come up with some plan for him then. Napoleon nodded slowly, unsettled about he was going to be agreeing to, but trusting that Illya knew what he was doing.

"Yes?"

Illya turned his head left, then right, then back to Napoleon, "No questions. Do as I say: You never, NEVER go out of surveillance. Don't give Oleg any reason to suspect."

"So…What about the CIA thing you told Oleg-," Napoleon interrupted in confusion.

" _Zashikat_! No questions!" Illya repeated tersely, "Oleg is already on to you, and not me. Don't have to do anything more. Leave the rest to me."

"Jesus Christ, Peril. What the hell does Oleg think I'm about to do?" Napoleon was starting to get worried.

Why did it sound like Oleg was eagerly waiting for any excuse to come after Napoleon?

Illya ignored his question, "Stay with Gaby. All times, on UNCLE mission. Until I come back."

Napoleon opened his mouth only to be silenced again by Illya's glare.

"Okay, okay," Napoleon placated, "I'll stay with Gaby, make sure she's safe."

Illya huffed, satisfied.

"But what if you run into trouble?"

"Don't need your help," Illya replied without even looking at him, "Get in."

Napoleon sighed and shook his head.

Illya could be so very infuriating sometimes. That pig-headed, bossy Russian with a holier-than-thou attitude. He knew Illya was the one sticking his neck out for Napoleon, but that didn't stop his blood pressure from rising.

He would be sure to hide a few trackers on Illya when he got the chance.

And if the KGB was behaving so defensively, it must involve state secrets then. Something big enough that the Russians would be willing to kill for. Something which happened in 1958, since that was the year Illya has conjured up. Napoleon would say that he had the curiosity of a cat. The more he was told no, the more curious he got. Unfortunately, unlike a cat, he doesn't have nine lives, so he was going to leave this one alone and trust that Illya would take care of it.

—

The lights in the small cabin were off, and there were no signs of movement. That didn't mean anything, after all it was only four in the morning. Despite that, Illya was sure that Gardner and the missus was hiding inside the small wooden cabin in the rural outskirts of Moscow. He had spent a full day chasing clues around the city. Illya scoffed to himself. Idiot CIA agent, did he think that he could hide from KGB agents, in Moscow of all places? Why didn't they leave Moscow? 

The CIA was lucky that the KGB didn't know to look for their sleeper agent yet; and Solo was lucky Illya was working with him and not against him. Not so lucky for Gardner on the other hand, he wouldn't even know what killed him.

This should be an easy mission, in and out. He'd be back to Gaby and Solo before the weekend even ended.

Illya broke open the back door without much as a creak. He slowly made his way to the bedroom, hisMakarov pistol raised in front of him.

His arm fell to his side when he saw the scene in front of him.

_Pizdets!_

Illya put his fist through the wooden wall of the bedroom in frustration. The bedroom where Gardner's ex-wife was horrifically gutted and left to bleed out on the bed.

The CIA traitor was nowhere to be seen, but Illya had a pretty good idea, from the various bootprints in the dried pools of blood. They were made by KGB-issued tactical boots.

—

"Okay, now what?" Gaby threw over her shoulder.

"Take this," Solo one of the pointy tools, she didn't care to learn their names, "In the lock it goes," he handed her another tool, "with this. And like I've taught you before, pick it after the light on the dial turns green."

Solo helpfully steadied his flashlight on the keyhole on the safe.

"This seems too easy," Gaby commented as she tried to follow Solo's instructions.

Solo laughed, "Well, it is not a very secure safe. Just a normal one, seeing how our guy is…," he lowered his voice, "Hang on, I think I heard something. Keep working on it, I'll go check it out. Remember, focus on feeling the movement of the pins and springs with your fingers."

Gaby knew what Solo left unsaid. Their guy was probably innocent, just a regular John Doe, since this was fake intel planted by the CIA as a cover for their real mission.

Gaby concentrated on the lock, hidden below the table of the office. Whoever it was outside the office, Solo would take care of it.

The pins and the springs…She almost got it-

"Umph! Fuck," Solo cursed.

Gaby dropped the lock picks at once, and grabbed the gun from her holster. She remained crouched behind the heavy mahogany table, finger beside the trigger.

"Gaby?"

"Illya!" Gaby peeked over the table, gun still at the ready, "You're back."

Illya didn't look very pleased, "We have a problem. But not here, We must go."

—

Napoleon rubbed at his eyes tiredly, until he started seeing stars and sparks on the back of his eyelid. Running away to live up in the North seemed like a perfectly fine option at the moment.

"Does the KGB know? About us?" Napoleon sighed.

Illya shook his head, "I don't know. They may just have found out about Gardner, but not us. Cut open the woman," he paused, "Pregnant, by the way. Probably to get information out of him."

"Jesus Christ."

Napoleon had seen enough brutality to last fifty lifetimes, but this was probably one of the cruelest acts he had, thankfully not seen, but heard of. He wondered if she was the reason Gardner abandoned his post. But if Gardner hadn't talked at the house, there probably wasn't much more the Russians could do to make him talk.

Gaby changed gears as they climbed a small hill,"Wasn't she the EX-wife?"

Illya shrugged, "Don't know. Not like we can ask him now. Wait, here! Stop."

Gaby stepped on the brakes, next to the entrance of a cemetery.

"Uh…Peril?" Napoleon thought they were going to where Peril's mother lived, "Is she-"

"Obviously, this is not where she lives. A block away. Don't be stupid, Cowboy," Illya huffed, "I go. Stay in the car."

"Wait," Napoleon followed Illya out of the car, "You may need back up, I'm coming with," he leaned down to look at Gaby, "Gaby, drive around the block and change us a car. Meet us at the gas station ahead in fifteen. I've marked it on the map."

Gaby nodded, "Be careful."

The snow crunched under their boots as they walked between the graves. Illya's jaw was set, his eyes fierce, probably worried about what they were going to find when they arrived at the doorstep.

Dusk was falling. The howling wind, shadowed headstones, and waving branches of the bare vegetation in the fringes of the cemetery made the scene positively creepy.

"Scared of ghosts, Cowboy?"

Napoleon chuckled at the unexpected question, "Actually, I think the living's way scarier."

"Mmm, guess so," Illya nodded solemnly, and after a few more steps, "Do you know what they do to family left behind by defectors?"

Napoleon looked down, "For what it's worth, I'm sorry, Illya,"

Illya had every right to blame it all on Napoleon.

"Not your fault entirely," Illya said simply, "Just partly."

Napoleon's shoulders slumped, "How long has it been since you saw her?"

Illya blew out a breath and tilted his head up to the sky, "Since…," he trailed off.

"Why," Napoleon asked, "Why do you help me? You could have let me come to Moscow by myself."

"Told you," Illya looked back at him, frowning, "You'll die."

"But why do you care if I died?"

Illya slowed down, "What…do you mean?"

"Exactly what I asked, Peril. I mean, why do you think I'm worth it?" Napoleon was in a melancholy mood.

If it turned out that the KGB had taken Illya's mother, would Peril wish that he had let Napoleon go on the mission by himself? Would he wish he had let Napoleon die instead?

Napoleon hasn't seen or talked to his family ever since they had sent him off to fight in the war. He never returned after the war, but he did send money back home, lots of it, mostly to soothe his guilt of abandoning them. He didn't even know if they were dead or alive.

If it came down to it, would Napoleon risk his family's lives for Peril's?

"We're here," Illya ignored his question, "Second floor. Two entrances. One each?"

Napoleon swung his gaze to the door at the other end of the apartment building, "I'll take left."

"Two-oh-seven," Illya checked his gun.

The dingy stairwell in the dingy apartment block looked the exact same as the one they were staying in. There were sounds and smells of dinner cooking as Napoleon creeped past the closed doors along the corridor. Nothing out of the ordinary. Illya was walking towards him from the other side, both of them converging towards apartment 2-07. Napoleon pressed his ear against the door. He could hear the television, and a creaky rocking chair perhaps?

"Seems like we're in the clear," Napoleon shrugged.

They holstered their guns and Illya raised his fist to knock, but his hand stopped in midair.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow at his hesitation.

"Been long time," Illya sighed and finally knocked.

—

Illya could see the shadows moving beneath the door, his heart beating wildly in his throat.

The lock turned and the door creaked open.

 _"Is that really you, Illya?"_ Her hands were on his cheeks. They were a lot more bony and wrinkled than he had remember.

And her hair…it was all white now.

 _"Mama,"_ Illya bent down and wrapped his arms around her.

It was surprising how that familiar voice and smell, was enough to bring Illya back years, to a time before…when everything was simpler, untainted by the blood on his hands.

"I'll be downstairs."

When Illya turned around, Solo was already gone.

He turned back to mama, " _I'm sorry."_

" _Don't be sorry, Illya. You're here, that's all that matters."_

Illya shook his head, a lump in his throat. He kneeled on one knee, _"I have to go. I have to leave Russia. I'm sorry."_

He has been thinking about defecting for some time now.

As long as Illya was KGB, Oleg will not stop expecting Illya to betray Solo and Gaby; And as long as Illya was KGB, his mama will never be safe.

This was the only way.

She was smiling, tears glistening in her eyes, " _It is alright, Illya. It is alright."_

 _"I'm sorry,"_ Illya was clutching onto her, his breaths coming in short pants.

She wiped off a tear on his cheek with a finger, _"Just like we talked about, da?"_

Illya nodded, " _Just like we talked about. You have to go, tonight. Before he finds out,"_ he stood up from the floor, _"I'll help you pack."_

—

Napoleon leaned on a rusty bike as he waited for Illya. For once, luck was on their side. Like Illya, he had been afraid of what he was going to find, but it was because he wasn't sure that Illya wouldn't actually hurt him if something had happened to his mother. He has witnessed the aftermath of Illya's rage-fuelled rampages before.

"Cowboy," Illya came down the stairs.

Napoleon followed Illya out of the building, "Not staying for dinner?"

"Nyet."

So Peril was not in a talking mood then.

"Where are we headed?" Napoleon asked, buttoning up his coat.

"North. Twelve hours to Finland. Ten if Gaby drives faster," Illya sighed, "Then we call extraction."

Why would they need extraction? Was the KGB after them?

Napoleon frowned, "Finland? Is the KGB-"

"I'm leaving KGB, Solo," Illya's tone was firm.

The unrelenting wind blowing at their faces must have contorted Illya's words because there was no way the Red Peril, the physical embodiment of the Soviet Union, was going to leave the KGB for good. Wasn't his whole sense of self and life just built upon patriotism and allegiance to his Motherland?

But then again, Illya did seem to have trouble yielding to the demands of Oleg in the recent months. Or actually, ever since their first mission, when they burned the disc on that rooftop in Rome.

Napoleon already knew who the KGB was going to blame for the bad influence and corruption of their best agent, leading to said agent's defection; and it wasn't going to be Gaby.

"What about your mother?"

Illya gaze remained ahead, "She is dead. To Oleg, to KGB. To you."

"You had a plan all along," Napoleon commented.

Since when did Illya started plotting his defection? Was this why he was willing to help Napoleon in the first place, for a chance to come back and see his mother one last time?

"I always have plan, Cowboy," Illya finally looked at Napoleon, "You should try that sometime."

—

"But," Gaby asked, while driving them through the unlit back roads of Soviet Russia, "What are you going to tell Sanders? The CIA?"

Solo shrugged, "Gardner's dead, most probably. Sanders doesn't need to know who killed him. What is he going to do, ask the KGB if they have seen his agent?"

"Watch the road, Gaby," Illya mentioned offhandedly.

His window was down, much to the ire of the other passengers of the car. The sensation of the bitingly cold wind numbing his face was oddly soothing. He always used to have his windows down when he was a child, in the backseat of his parent's car.

He had never felt so free, and it was a good feeling. It was an addictive feeling. Even though he would have to look over his shoulders for the rest of his life, because the KGB never forgives defectors, he was finally free.

"Don't tell me how to drive, I can do it with my eyes closed," Gaby snapped.

Her tone grew softer, "You could have brought her along? Wouldn't she be safer with us?"

Illya snorted. There was no way he was going to trust Waverly and UNCLE enough to not use mama against him. He wasn't going to trade being held captive by one agency for being held captive by another agency. No.

If he was going to undertake UNCLE missions, it would be because he wanted to, and not because he was forced to at gunpoint to his mother's head.

"You shouldn't trust Waverly so much, chop shop girl," Illya advised, "And us, safe? No. Safe is far away from me."

"Well, I'd say this mission was a success then? We should celebrate. Drinks are on me," Solo smiled.

"Wait until we crossed the border at least," Gaby griped, "How freaking big is this place?"

Illya actually burst out laughing. The sleep deprivation and tension finally getting to him. He was feeling somewhat hysterical. Solo joined in, and Gaby not too long after.

By the time Illya managed to stop and take in a proper breath, he had tears gathering in his eyes.

"Wow Peril," Solo continued to guffaw, "I didn't know you can do that."

"What?"

Hardy har. Illya braced himself for Solo's incoming sarcastic remark along the lines of him being an unemotional killing robot for the Soviet Union, which Solo had alluded to multiple times.

Solo just shook his head with a lopsided smile.

"Shut up, Cowboy."


End file.
